Page 49 of Angel’s Claim

We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I watch her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she hums softly when she tastes something good. The way she looks completely relaxed for the first time since I met her.

"Can I tell you something?" she says suddenly, setting down her burger.

"Yeah. Anything."

"I never expected this." She gestures vaguely between us, at the motel room, at the cut still lying on the floor where I dropped it. "Running away from my family, ending up in some town I'd never heard of, meeting you. Having the best sex of my life in a cheap motel room."

I raise an eyebrow. "Best sex of your life?"

Her cheeks flush. "Don't get cocky."

"Too late." I grin and steal one of her fries in retaliation. "But yeah, I know what you mean."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I thought joining the military would save me. Thought it would give me purpose, make me into someone worth being. And it did, for a while. But when I got out..." I trail off, not sure how to explain the emptiness that followed.

"It didn't lead anywhere?" she finishes.

"Exactly. I left because my dad was beating the shit out of me, and I thought if I could just get away, everything would be better. Turns out you can't outrun your past. You just carry it with you."

Bree reaches over and takes my hand. "What happened to your dad?"

"He's in prison. Beat my mom so badly she ended up in a medically induced coma." The words come out flat, emotionless, because I've said them enough times that they don't hurt the same way anymore. "Three broken ribs, fractured skull. I was deployed when it happened. Couldn't get emergency leave in time."

Her hand tightens on mine. "Angel, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"I know, but—" She stops. "You blame yourself, don’t you? For not being there."

I look at her, surprised. "How did you—"

"Because I blame myself for my mother dying," she whispers. "Even though I was literally being born and had no control over it. Even though everyone tells me it's not rational. I still feel like if I hadn't existed, she'd still be alive."

Fuck.

I pull her against my chest, and she comes willingly, curling into me like she belongs there.

"It wasn't your fault," I tell her. "Your mother's death. It wasn't your fault."

"And your mom getting hurt wasn't yours," she says against my chest.

"I know that in my head. Just haven't convinced the rest of me yet."

"Same."

We sit there for a moment, holding each other, two broken people trying to figure out how to be whole.

"Do you still talk to her?" Bree asks finally. "Your mom?"

"Yeah. She lives about two towns over. Calls me every Sunday to make sure I'm eating enough and not getting into trouble." I smile despite myself. "She's doing better now. Stronger. Says getting away from him was the best thing that ever happened to her, even if it took almost dying to make it happen."

"I'm glad she's okay."

"Me too." I kiss the top of her head. "What about you? You gonna talk to your dad eventually?"

She's quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. Maybe. When I'm ready. When I've built something here that's mine and he can't take it away from me." She pulls back to look at me. "Does that make me a bad person?"